


The Show Must Go On

by flurblewig



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, Multi, Smut, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flurblewig/pseuds/flurblewig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> It's not about Angel...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Show Must Go On

It's not about Angel.

It's about carrying on, about being able to through the day - and the night. It's about being with someone who understands, but doesn't _know._ There's an important distinction between the two, and Buffy thinks that only she and Nina really get that.

The others all know too much. Willow, Giles, Xander - they were there, they lived through all that ancient history right along with her. And yes, there's a certain amount of comfort in that - but it comes at a price. When she's around them, it starts to make her feel like maybe it might not be quite so ancient after all. Their sympathy, their support - it's well-meant, she understands that. They want to do what they can to help her. The problem is that their concern is smothering her, weighing her down. They make her feel fragile, and that's something she can never afford to be.

With Nina, it's different. Oh, she knows who Buffy is, of course - or rather, who she was - Nina's heard all the stories. But that's the important part - that they are just stories. Just words. Buffy's part is that of the old flame, the ex; those titles were battle-won, and she can wear them for Nina with a kind of pride.

Nina doesn't know what she went through, doesn't know what any of his life or death meant to her - and she doesn't want to. She never offers Buffy comfort, or tries to ease her grief. Nina never tries to love her.

And of course, she returns the favour. Nina's titles are newer and shinier - girlfriend, lover - but they're still just words. Nothing more than statements of fact - dry, dusty, and devoid of emotion. Buffy never saw her with him, never witnessed any soft looks or overheard any sweet whispers. She doesn't know what any of it meant to Nina, either. It's the one thing they can do for each other: not know the extent of their loss.

Well, maybe not _just_ the one thing.

When they fuck it's always rough and fast and angry. Nina likes to wrap Buffy's hair around her fist and pull, yanking down hard so that Buffy has no choice but to offer up her throat. The closer they get to the full moon, the longer the marks that Nina makes take to heal. Eventually, Buffy thinks even Slayer skin will scar. She's kind of looking forward to that.

Buffy shreds Nina's clothes, taking a wanton pleasure in the petty destruction. She doesn't hold anything back and Nina never asks her to - there's a layer of steel beneath that downy skin and Buffy doesn't always come out on top. Sometimes she isn't sure whether they're fucking or fighting, but she doesn't think it matters either way. It's bloody and brutal and raw, and it's how they can tell that they're both still alive.

They don't talk much - not about _him,_ not about themselves or whatever it is that they're doing. There's still a job to be done, still a war to be fought. The lines might have blurred between duty and vengeance but again, Buffy thinks that it probably doesn't matter.

During the day, Nina makes weapons - she fills page after page of her sketchbook with drawings of long, elegant swords and short, ugly knives. She makes tiny scribbled notes that Buffy doesn't understand about weights and balance points, and retreats for hours into a workshop filled with heat and noise and strange, heavy tools that look like they should be used for shoeing horses. Buffy likes to watch her at work, likes to watch her get sweaty and dirty while the blades take shape under her roughened hands. She finds it both soothing and strangely exciting. Sometimes she'll drag Nina away from her work and slam her up against the wall by the blazing heat of the forge. She holds her in place by the shoulder and rubs the heel of her hand between her legs until she comes, gulping in air that scorches her throat.

During the night, while Nina sleeps, Buffy takes those blades and puts them to work.

She took down the dragon first of all - opened its throat with Nina's favourite katana, christened the blade with its blood. She shattered her wrist, her left cheekbone and three ribs doing it, but it seemed like a small price to pay. Blood washes off, cuts scab over, bones knit. Nina cleaned up both Buffy and the sword, and then went back to her forge. The show, after all, must go on.

Every now and then Nina will be called to clean up Spike, too. He appears on an irregular basis; sometimes weeks, sometimes months, depending on how long he can keep going with whatever injuries he's picked up this time.

So Nina tends him and, if the damage is severe enough, Buffy feeds him. An army needs its resources, and if it falls to them to keep up the supply line then so be it. Sometimes the lines blur between duty and desire, too. She doesn't have a problem with that.

Spike doesn't talk much these days, either. He doesn't say a word as Nina throws Buffy to the floor and trails her tongue down Buffy's skin. Both Nina and Spike close their eyes as they inhale the scent of her, both of them growl, soft and low. He comes to kneel on the floor beside Buffy's head and watches as Nina's tongue travels further down her body, as her hands grip Buffy's thighs and force them roughly apart. He waits until Buffy begins to pant and arch her back before he bites. It never fails to make her come, screaming.

When he's done, Nina kisses him. If the wolf is close to the surface, he lets her lick the last traces of Buffy's blood from his lips first.

There are no endearments, no declarations. No promises or goodbyes, on either side. When they wake in the morning he'll be gone again, but it doesn't matter. They don't need speeches; they say everything they need to say with bodies and tongues and teeth. They do what they have to do.

And it's never, ever, about Angel.

 

-end-


End file.
